A sharp whistle cut through the canopy overhead, and Greer opened her eyes to look up. The sound was high and keening, enough to even break through her muffled fog, but unlike any birdcall Greer had ever heard. She froze, remembering the bats that had come on Reaping night.
“Just an owl,” she promised herself. “It’s just an owl.”
Another cry pierced the night, but this time Greer recognized it.
It was a wolf’s howl, coming from somewhere to her south. At first there was just one, but then another joined in, and a third, then a fourth. A whole pack. Their notes lingered in the icy air, the mournful pitches sending shivers of fear down Greer’s spine.
She pictured them poised on the edge of a cliff, surveying their kingdom with wide chests and massive paws, heads full of yellow eyes and sharp teeth.
Trappers who had wandered into Mistaken, becoming caught within the Warding Stones, had said the wolves around their cove were different from the ones they’d hunted before.
They grew bigger. Meaner.
But the thing that scared the trappers most was the wolves’ intelligence.
“Certainly smarter than me,” Baptiste Moreau had once warned, seated at a campfire while Mistaken celebrated a Hunter’s Moon.
Lachlan had scoffed it off, saying that—by his estimation of Baptiste—that wasn’t a lot.
Giving the tree one final touch, Greer set off, quickening her pace.
She hiked for hours. Her knees throbbed, and the pack’s straps were just uneven enough to cut welts against her shoulders. Her eyes ached from squinting against the lantern’s light.
Still, she went on.
She stumbled up more embankments, tripped over unseen tree roots and leaf-covered rocks.
Only when she came upon the remains of a fire circle did Greer pause. She studied the area, hungry for details. The campsite looked fresh and undisturbed. Ellis had stopped here, this small clearing edged in fallen logs, and built up a fire. His prints were all over the ground.
Greer spotted a bower of branches, its shape formed too perfectly to have been tossed there by the wind. Several limbs were propped upright, creating a protective lean-to. Ellis had made this nest and rested here, sleeping upon a bed of pine needles.
She knew she should press onward, knew she would be able to catch up with him sooner if she didn’t stop. But the bed looked so tempting, and the remnants of his fire invited her to set it ablaze once more. He’d already done the work. She just needed to create one small spark.
Only once the fire was going, its flames big enough to warm Greer’s chilled limbs, did she begin to look through the rest of her pack.
Besides the flint and hatchet, there was a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper and twine, as if Ellis had just brought it home from thebakery, and some sort of jerky—Greer sniffed and guessed it might be venison. There was a small set of cooking tools—a pot, a plate, a metal cup—and a canteen of water, already filled. Greer took a long, grateful swig. Squashed at the bag’s bottom was a cache of clothing, including a spare set of mittens and a heavy flannel shirt. It was a dark blue-and-green plaid, her favorite of Ellis’s. She removed her cloak and slipped the shirt over her dress. It was far too big, but felt soft and warm and smelled of Ellis. She snuggled in its comforting familiarity for a moment before throwing her cloak over it.
The rucksack’s inner pockets contained a small knife, a compass, and—to her great delight—an extra set of socks. She scrunched her fingers into the plush wool, smiling as she imagined Mary knitting these, wholly unaware that Greer would one day use them to go after her son.
As exhaustion set in, Greer fell into the bed of pines, stretching. She shifted back and forth, trying to find a comfortable position. She would rest for only a few hours, and then head out.
Something rustled beneath her.
Her eyes flashed open, and she rolled over, pawing at the branches.
There, nestled in the greenery, was a folded square of paper.
As she flattened it open, Greer’s breath caught.
It was a map, the one Ellis had gotten off the merchant captain only days ago. The one Greer assumed had been lost forever in the chaos of the barn-warming night.
Ellis had saved it.
Ellis had taken it with him.
And, against all likelihood, Ellis had used it to leave her a note.
She scanned his penciled words with hungry eyes, devouring each syllable. It felt as if he was speaking directly to her. She could almost hear the rich warmth of his baritone.
